to. Look at yer!
An' look at _me_. Non-c'misshn'd orficer in free an' a 'arf years from
j'inin'. Never tasted alc'ol in me life, an' if any man offud me a
glarse, d'ye know what I'd _dew_?"

"No, Corporal, I'd like to hear," replied Dam. (Must keep the animal
talking as long as possible for the sake of human company. He'd go mad
at once, perhaps, when the Corporal went to bed.)

"I'd frow it strite in 'is faice, I would," announced the virtuous
youth. A big boot flopped heavily on the floor.

"I daresay you come of good old teetotal stock," observed Dam, to make
conversation. Perhaps the fellow would pause in his assault upon the
other boot and reply--so lengthening out the precious minutes of
diversion. Every minute was a minute nearer dawn....

"_Do_ yer? Well, you're bloomin' well wrong, Maffewson, me lad. My
farver 'ad a bout every Saturday arternoon and kep' it up all day a
Sund'y, 'e did--an' in the werry las' bout 'e ever 'ad 'e bashed 'is
ole woman's 'ead in wiv' a bottle."

"And was hanged?" inquired Dam politely and innocently, but most
tactlessly.

"Mind yer own b---- business," roared Corporal Prag. "Other people's
farvers wasn't gallows-birds if yourn was. 'Ow'd you look if I come
and punched you on the nose, eh? Wot 'ud you do if I come an' set
abaht yer, eh?"

"Break your neck," replied Dam tersely.

"Ho, yus. _And_ wot 'ud yew say when I calls the guard and they frows
you into clink? Without no light, Trooper Maffewson!"

Dam shuddered.

Corporal Prag yet further improved the occasion, earning Dam's
heartfelt blessing.

"Don't you fergit it, Trooper Maffewson. I'm yore sooperier orficer.
You _may_ be better'n me in the Ring, praps, or with the sword (Dam
could have killed him in five minutes, with or without weapons), but
if I 'olds up my little finger _you_ comes to 'eel--or other'ow you
goes ter clink. 'Ung indeed! You look after yer own farver an' don'
pass remarks on yer betters. Why! You boozin' waster, I shall be
Regimental Sargen' Majer when you're a bloomin' discharged private wiv
an 'undred '_drunks_' in red on yer Defaulter's Sheet. Regimental
Sarjen' Majer! I shall be an Orficer more like, and walk acrost the
crossin' wot _you're_ asweepin', to me Club in bloomin' well
Pickerdilly! Yus. This is the days o' _? Demockerycy_, me lad. 'Good
Lloyd George's golden days' as they sing--and steady fellers like me
is goin' to ave C'missh'ns--an' don' you fergit it! Farver 'ung
indeed!"